


Counting Crows

by Aminias



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst, But only a bit, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Hale fire, Hurt/Comfort, I give peter all the nice things, I lied, I'm Sorry, M/M, Scott McCall might become a decent friend, Stiles has wings, Stiles loves Peter so much this is not a spoiler he would give up curly fries for Peter, Wingfic, Wings, all of them - Freeform, all quiet on the relationship front, character is metaphorically the lucifer, jk, love at first snark, maybe not curly fries but Peter would never ask that ok, ok a lot, pretty wings, their relationship is fine, they have wings, this is not funny really sorry, wing fic, wing!fic, you heard me I slacked off on my other fics and give you this instead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-07 05:36:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8785186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aminias/pseuds/Aminias
Summary: Part of Peter wants to fly away and never come back. The rest of him can't bare to even look at the wings. His wings.Part of Stiles rests on the idea of pack and never looks back. The rest of him want's Peter.





	1. One for Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> I just have no excuse so many WIPS but wingfic and Peter angst and Stiles love
> 
> Just Hale fire first chapter my main warning here and Peters dealing with stuff but Stiles is there for him they bother are here for each other 
> 
> this is unbetaed but for some grammar things

 

**_One For Sorrow_ **

* * *

 

Ceiling tiles fall around him, and flaming meteors crumble into heaps. The piles cradle once upright wooden beams. His toes burn as flames lick his bare feet. 

Peter coughs trying to clear his lungs. The smoke only grows denser  clustering into   a thick black mass that marches around the house with precision of a firing squad and grace of a tornado. Horror gnaws in his gut, the scent of ash curling into his nostrils as flesh burns. Screams echo off wood, the shrill noise  scrapes his spine,  wrecking each bone as they pass over his body. Feathers melt like pine straw, crumbling into little orange snakes and falling to nothing underfoot. 

His  feathers pure black in this light  litter the room. He cries out his family's names with a horus throat. 

Its futile. 

 

A high-pitched whimper sounds from where the closet should be...

_ Oh god _ ,  **Laura** . 

He claws through burning woods, his hands sear pink from the multiple attempts to heal her. 

Finally, Peter breaks through the door. Laura is huddled in a pile of coats to try and stop the smoke.

He hauls her out of the burning closet, clutching her body to his chest. She looks like a child in his arms. A slight thing on the cusp of her college years; his darling niece. She looks even frailer as he runs to the bathroom. The room is a tiled monstrosity, and stands a better chance of beating the blaze. The shower nozzle creaks and groans before, finally consenting to spit out water. Tears stream down Laura's face. Her wings flutter, desperately  reaching o ut towards him but he cannot stay. He must help the others.

He must try. 

 

Peter finds Derek half buried beneath a beam the boy's eyes unfocused and hazy.  Derek’s hands reach towards him.

“Mom.” Derek cries. Tears work their way down his solemn face they stream towards the floor but evaporate after kissing his cheek.   “It's all my fault.” He admits.

Peter doesn't care, not right now, but he knows for sure that this,  _ this _ ruin, isn’t a teenage boy, whose greatest harm was reading Hemingway’s, fault. Grunting, Peter grasps his hands around the beam that’s scorching like a furnace. 

Derek is trying to shake his head, his wings hidden on the astral plane, but if they were still visible, they’d be quaking. 

“Leave.” Derek tries to say between coughs. 

Peter’s having none of his bullshit. “Go,” he says to the boy. “Go before it's too late.” 

Blue eyes marred with navy shadows: the creeping of sorrow meet his.

“Go,” he growls.

Derek goes.

 

Peter is wheezing now, everything at once too big and too small. His wings twist. 

The beam falls.  Screaming, his  voice raises to join the others among the waking ruin of their home, as the night sky looks on their howls cry to a moonless air.

He wakes up to find he’s _never_ stopped screaming. 

 

The wings don't matter, he's full of rage and grief. If only he had been fast enough. Alone, why is he alone? His hands are bloodied crimson. Stains seep across his tan skin like ink on a page. 

Red taints everything. 

_Oh God,_ **Laura.**

He's seeing red,  her corpse graces his claws, those proud wings are now  shriveled  things. Their  once soft purple that darkened at the edges into deep violet is the color of pastel feathers crumpled like paper  her body lay paper tossed aside in a waste basket. 

There is no excuse, he _was_ her favorite uncle. _Was_ her only uncle. 

_ Was _ many things. 

He  _ is _ too late.  


	2. Two for Mirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you seethe at me because this chapter is not funny but bonus mention of Stiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the plot thickens er moves forward 
> 
> more mistakes in writing

He expects them to be haggard, the wings. Peter remembers them during the fire as washed linen sheets clinging to a closeline in the blistering wind.

That is to say beaten all to hell..

Flames rendering them incapable of holding him aloft. He wonders if he’ll find the feathers threaded together like a patchwork quilt matching the right side of his face. Wings are the innermost reflection of a person. Peter understands himself just fine these days. He doesn’t dare look. _It doesn't matter anyway._

 

Right now he's at a pack meeting. His dear nephew, a creature of habit, glowers across the room from the corner he's claimed. Navy wings loom behind him as he leans, arms crossed holding vigil.

The True Alpha sits, debating the morals of Imp slaying with the Banshees, righteousness in every twitch of his feathers.

Then there is Stilinski, all willowy limbs and wide lips firing off remarks as he places snack food on the table, long arms depositing bowls and plates. It's strange to think that he recently he that pale wrist in his hand. Fragile, like cupping a baby bird. Everything then feels tinted, angry.

Stilinski is a desperately opaque thing beneath the rage.

 

The Peter from before was a man hewn of need. The Peter now is a being with a broad high forehead, wide shoulders that hung the moon above and hands that weighed justice on Libra’s Scale in the quiet of the mind. His palms are still unnaturally pink below the tan of most of his body.

Peter clothes himself in black v-necks in part because he likes to utilize every tool, his figure being one. In truth: even with ruin creeping in every smirk, he is still mourning.

Peter is not molded of concrete; he is not something poured into fine lines and cemented in the ground.  

The way Talia is.

_Was._

 

 **Wish:** There was a time, though, that he stood as her equal,both of their minds bright as morning glinting as the stars against the night sky.

 

 **Reality:** That _never_ happened.  

 

He shouldn’t miss her, the woman who used him like a spare tire every time she got a flat.

Something kept quiet hidden in case of emergency.  

Lingering in the background and menacing at her will.

The Bogey Man.

It’s a role he’s used, to something he adopts again with ease.

 _This is the lie he chooses_.  

 

He has time, too much time.

Peter _watches_ the ramshackle pack and, in his own way, tries to keep it afloat.

 _Notices_ Stiles, despite stubbing his toe on the table leg and nearly face planting if it weren't for Ericas help. He doesn't flare out his wings or manifest them onto the physical plane.

In fact, Peter is sure he has _never_ seen the wings that _none_ of the them have.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your kudos want to hug Peter and are curious about Stiles your comments curse out the misleading chapter title and cuddle Peter


	3. Three For A Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> once more no one is getting married its more the idea of union :( but more Stiles / Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for mild panic on Peters part but Stiles calms him down some uhh enjoy?  
> this chapter is so bad why are you still reading

**_Three For A  Wedding_ **

* * *

 

The union of a pack is a strange thing. He’s here, of course; where else would he be? The grill is fired up and something is roasting on the spit. The others are gathering close, laughing amongst themselves, something about Scot’s apron. 

Allison is adjusting the strap; the perfect couple; the marriage of hunter and wolf. 

The girl is vicious with her bow; for all of the alpha’s beveled edges, she is sharp.

Their wings brush together, honest russet and respectable eagle browns.

He doesn't need that, doesn't miss that - _ it's fine _ . 

 

The air is slowly leaving the room. Is that smoke?  Pack is relative. He can do this. It’s just a cookout. He can -- a plate slams down in front of him. Peter chances a look. Eyes with the depth of a fine aged malt stare at him. One lanky arm reaches over, fingers grasp the back of his neck. Peter is tilting his head before he can help himself. Air releases from his lungs in a single great exhale. Stiles says nothing.  He doesn't need to. Peters hands  tenses reflexively gripping the tablecloth. He hopes he pokes holes in the ugly thing. His knuckles are turning whiter than beach sand and he fights to loosen his grip.  

He can hear  Stilinski moving in to stand at his shoulder the scuffle of his shoes on the grass startlingly loud. 

At one point, he clears his throat to speak.

“I --” Peter starts

“Have something against Mickey Mouse?.” 

“Hmm?” 

“The tablecloth. Has it personally offended you? I get it --”

Peter huffs. Fingers press a little firmer and he leans back in the chair, relinquishing the table cloth. 

“No, really,” .

Stiles idly tugged on a  few of Peters stray locks of  hair. 

“The invitation to the club house never came in the mail?” The boy inquired. 

Peter’s lips twitch. ‘Fraid not.”

Stiles leans, something soft is gently pressing into Peter’s back, a large warmth. He stills in surprise. 

“Want to know a secret?” Stiles asks, words dancing near his ear.

Peter very carefully keeps his gaze fixed on the others, who are standing around in small groups, whispering and laughing amongst themselves. 

“No matter how many clues I solved... I was never invited either.” 

He thinks he catches a snatch of dark feathers just outside of his vision; by the time he attempts to turn further, Stiles is gone. 

“Foods done,” chorus the teens, feathers dancing in the air with glee.

The scent of burning flesh swirls dangerously closer, taunting him.

Hamburger buns are placed on the table. Chairs litter either side, a mishmash of whatever could be scrounged up. It's all so _ very _ domestic. There aren't nearly enough seats with the one he's in being taken. Most of the others are grabbing whatever they please, surrounding the table like a bunch of filthy scavengers and snatching up whatever morsel is free. Stiles is nowhere in sight.

The beef in the frying pan smell sneaks ever nearer, singing like acid in his nose.  

“This has been nice, but some of us have things to do.”  _ Like wallow in contemplative despair.  _ The excuse sounds flimsy, even to him, but it skirts just close enough to the truth that he manages not to ding any radars. 

Scott growls. “You could be a little thankful for the barbecue.” Smoke wafts near, wrapping itself around his senses.

“Or at least help!”

Peter never gives him the chance to continue. 

“Help?” Peter fumes stalking forward. “ You want my help?” He bites out.

“ Fine, here it is. A pack protects each other.”

Scott opens his mouth “We -”

Peter flexes a clawed hand eyes flashing. 

“Regardless of  personal feelings. A pack shares resources first  so that there is enough for all, personal want comes second .”

“What are you talking about? Everyone has a plate!”

Peter shakes his head.  _ “Where is Stiles?”  _

“He’s --” Scott looks around a moment, puzzled.

“Not here.”

“ _ Exactly _ .” Peter is scarcely aware of when he started growling but now the rumble fills the clearing, an echo to the gathering storm.

“A pack values  _each other_ **_._ ” **

The very air holds it’s breath, not daring to stir. Peter casts his gaze around the gaggle of young adults, teens really, the mismatched chairs, the piles of food on their plates now sitting untouched, the Mickey Mouse table cloth fluttering cheerfully in the wind, the alpha who would rather the ground be littered with their bones than risk taking a stranger's life. 

**“This is no pack.”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your kudos wave the sass banner your comments are independent and don't need no man but are willing to more than settle for Stiles


	4. Four for a Birth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dont ask but Stiles cuddles Peter still no beta sorry guys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you are born anew with each waking day

**_Four for a Birth_ **

* * *

 

Why is it always fire?

The woods are burning.

Peter is burning; burning with need. Chest heaving great gasps into the air, the air which does not cool his lungs, but sears through both nostrils, clawing at the soft tissue of the throat.

He swings his arms harder, pushing.

He _isn’t_ sixteen; this _isn’t_ high school.

Why is he still dancing behind smirks with a hard set in the shoulder? Others hedging bets that it will all get better some day if they can just hold out.

Peter, a creature of action, nipping at the fingers of would be kings for there were none fairer than he.

_Ridiculous._

Something crackles behind him.   

Claws scrabble against tree bark or purchase. Smoke swirls around the tree branches which sweep across the open sky tearing holes in the fabric of blue and brushing against twinkling stars. Something cool brushes his feet lapping at his toes.

He made it.

The lake twists around him, water forming like a caress across his body as he sinks. Deeper. Deeper down into the dark. It’s cool, enveloping, here: beneath the waves. He never wants to wake.Water is as solid as a lover, cradling his body; he is not drowning.

_This isn’t so bad._

 

Black creeps on his vision; he feels like an old house, the kind that vines climb; he is a lesser version of the stone that crumbles beneath. Held aloft merely by each root, piercing tubers that  stab between the mortar. Maybe the vines are  seeking to stir the rotted edifice into life or permanently cage the structure, rendering  it inert. He whimpers curling in on himself,Water feels like frost as it washes over his skin. He is opaque, like glass in a window pane. Peter chest is hollow in much the same way; reflective, as if just anyone could peer in through the cracks etched in icy lines.  

A voice murmurs lowly in his ear soothing tones cascade over his body and the tremors still.

Then he wakes. Pale arms  frame him on either side ; lithe fingers are dragging through his hair; the texture of a washcloth against his forehead is foreign.

He blinks.

Eyes that glint like sunrays caught in amber look him over.

 _Deja-vu._  

The room is too dark; his sight is blurred, head pounding as he grips one of those arms; something large shivers in the shadows.

Unsettled, he aches to turn his head; the pain slices through him, sharp as rocks below a cliff edge.

A hand stops him at his chin.

“Rest.” Stiles says… No, demands in a feather soft whisper.

Peter shifts his body trying to rise.  
A hand presses gently down on his chest. Stiles places dewdrop light kiss to his forehead. "Rest," he repeats. The kiss brushes against Peters skin.

Peter's eyes flutter shut.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your kudos blink at the strange imagery your comments demand to know what happened to Peter and all the forhead kisses


	5. Five for Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I do what I want not beta read

Stiles pecks at his food before shoving the bowl aside.  “If I was half as bitter as you I’d be broken”  _ I’d don’t think that.  _  Peters throat feels tight around each swallow and his eyes heavy. 

 

“What do you mean?” He tries instead.

Stiles smiles the lines on his face tight. “I’m going to do what is right.” Peter frowns at the nonsenquinture. The light of dawn streams through the window chasing shadows up the wall and highlighting the young man's features with a sharpness usually  reserved to knives. 

“By that you mean ?”  _  What is wrong? _ Wondered Peter nothing's change.

That’s just it.

Change:  improvise, adapt, overcome, Shawn _ used _ to say that. 

Peter clutches the words close to his chest. The way ravens do shiney things in their claws,

(“I wasn’t aware you viewed things in such black and white Peter.”

“Just curious”)

_ “No but being the voice of reason that's not a new one for you ?”Talia snarls in his ear.  _

_ “Talia we can’t just throw around our weight and expect everyone to cave there is a difference between a show of strength and one of -” _

_ “Enforcer it is not your job to question.” _

_ “Yes Alpha”  _

“What do you want?”

“Why do I have to want anything other then to help a friend?”

“Friend.”

“I mean its not like you somehow magically nursed yourself back to health.”

“I did come back from the dead.”

“Neat trick .”

“Fine then Stiles  what do I owe you?”

“Sharing is caring?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets.”

“Darn.”

“So you admit you do want something.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nothing's free.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”Said the young man with a wry smile.

Peter didn’t return his grin he simply looked a thousand little things sliding into place inside his brain that had previously been spatially like dust motes dancing in rays of slightly similar light. 

 

When viewed at a certain angel..

 

(They say  gods love is  a beautiful thing,)

 

Talia who so often twinley invoked both delight and despair with a  twitch of her pinky.

 

Stiles words so caustic he’s felled plans with only one and saved other in the same breath with merely three. 

 

(Their hatred a means of ruin. )

 

Talia chin raised high as her morals cleaning pristine claws with narrowed eyebrows and a curled lip.

 

The fluorescents catching Styles eyes amber hot and tempting simmering with promise of agony to beast who’d dared touch them. 

 

(Fly too close to the sun and you will get burned)

 

Peter choking on his own blood feeling the heel of Talia’s boot pressing into his cracked ribs clawed hands.

 

Reaching.

 

(Fly too close to the ocean and you will drown) 

 

Stiles hands sure but gentle wiping rust colored streaks from his skin and chastising him from as close as Peter would let him get to bind the wounds. 

 

Grasping.

 

Peter braces himself against the tidal wave of memory. His mind is a tsunami of what if and rapidly discarded plans. He shakes a raft amid the torrential down pour of his dark own thoughts.  Blackness looms on the horizon he can see no further. 

  
Stiles reaches for him..

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr : @shudder-dove  
> Your kudos seethe with rage over this event your comments take charge and become Rambo so they can ruthlessly hunt down kate argent


End file.
